Oh, you hate your job? Why didn’t you say so? There’s a support group for that. It’s called everybody, and they meet at the bar. ~Drew Carey
Oh, hi there, it’s been a minute. Sorry it’s taken me so long to bang out a few thoughts here, but well, you know how it is. Sometimes life just takes over and before you know it, 15 years has blown by. Seriously? It’s been that long since I had anything to yak about? Boy, what an exciting life I lead. I would go back to 2008 and pick up from there, but that would take until Christmas, and I can’t even remember what I wore to work yesterday. There have been many highs, and way too many lows, but we must trudge on. These days I’m happily employed, and by that, I mean I’m just happy to have a job. Is it my dream job? No. Does it pay the bills? Yes. Am I ready to retire? You bet. Unfortunately, I still have at least a couple more years before I can watch Netflix and eat bon-bons all day. Heavy sigh. The good news is that my company has moved into a new fancy building out in Clovis. That’s right, just like The Jeffersons. It’s not a deluxe apartment in the sky, but the insides do resemble a gigantic airplane hangar. I won’t be surprised when I come into work one day, and there’s a Boeing 747 parked in the foyer. Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts…
…if you don’t like your job, you don’t strike. You just go in every day and do it really half-assed. That’s the American way. ~The Simpsons
Our new digs are very industrial, with lots of overhead piping, a thousand fluorescent lights, and windows everywhere. All the doors and conference rooms are glass, and the only thing you can’t see through, are the stainless-steel bathroom stalls. And who wants to see that? I’m telling you; SC Johnson doesn’t make enough Windex for this place. NO privacy, whatsoever, not even for the mucky mucks. Thinking of taking a quick snooze in your cushy leather chair? I don’t think so mister. Thank goodness we moved, because if I had to spend one more day schlepping down to our cockroach infested flophouse, I was going to lose my mind. You know, it was a joy having intellectual conversations with the homeless, dodging piles of dog poop, and breathing in the putrid scent of urine. That’s all well and good for some people, and a few of my crazy co-workers actually miss working deep in the belly of the beast. As for me, I couldn’t get out the door fast enough, waving a fond farewell to the stinky streets of downtown. So long suckers! I haven’t seen any spindly 8-legged critters yet, so hopefully we have some efficient pest control people taking care of things now. And by that, I mean I want to see Bill Murray and Dan Akroyd sauntering down the hall wearing proton packs…
The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him, and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too. ~Samuel Butler
And speaking of unwanted guests, we have a few in our backyard. No, I’m not talking about the squirrels and the blue jays. Specifically, there are three huge rats that have taken a liking to the crunchy contents of the bird feeder hanging from one of our trees. I know what you’re probably thinking, oh how cute, they have Ratatouille scampering around the flora and fauna. He’s happily sitting on his haunches, nibbling on a blade of grass and picking the sunflower seeds from his tiny little teeth. Well, my friends, this is no Disney movie. These rogue rodents are fat and ugly, with hairless tails longer than David Letterman’s beard. Yikes. Their fangs are yellow, their fur is filthy, and their nails are like sharp, stunted spikes. My wacky dog, Coco, is absolutely obsessed with this trio of thieves, and practically plows through the screen door whenever she sees them. Run away! Run away! I shall eat you alive!
I have to admit, they are kind of fun to mess with. I like to wait until the entire herd is planted on the feeder, greedily chomping away, their beady eyes rolling back in gastronomic pleasure. Then I slowly sneak up, and like a hissing snake, blurt out an ear-splitting, PSSSSSSST!!!!!!!!! I don’t know what’s more hilarious, watching them scatter in all directions, or laughing as Coco sprints back into the house like someone just pinched her ass. Ruff! And that may be the only exercise she gets all day, except for skimming the floors like a Roomba in search of fallen food. She really is the strangest dog; she doesn’t like to play, and she’s terrified of toys. Walking around the neighborhood, she avoids other dogs, side-stepping backwards to keep a safe distance of no less than 3 feet. It’s not that she doesn’t like dogs, she just doesn’t want to be friends. She’s really not a big fan of that whole butt-sniffing thing either. Her eyes get all bugged out, and if she was human, her facial expression would say, “Look dude, you better buy me dinner first…”
There are memories I choose not to live with, but we occasionally meet for a drink. ~Robert Brault
These days, when I’m not chasing Rodents of Unusual Size (see: The Princess Bride), I’m spending quality time with my mother. And by that, I mean attempting to decipher what the heck she’s talking about, via Dot-Speak. This is when mom pulls words out of her cranium’s cobwebs and combines them with her version of sign language. It’s like playing charades, where I smile and listen and nod until I win the game. There’s no prize, but just guessing the right answer is worth a celebration. Dot has vascular dementia, which is a whole weird thing that plays tricks on the brain, screws up speech, and makes the memory go bye-bye. When Dot thinks really hard, she’ll squint her eyes and make fast gestures with her hands, twisting her wrists around. It’s as if she’s forcing the answer to come shooting out of her fingers, like Wonder Woman. Because of this disease, she forgets names of household objects, and generally refers to most items as “that thing.” Mom knows my name, and my two sister’s names, she just assigns them to the wrong one. The other day, she said, “I told Wendy to take that plant home, but it’s still here.” Wait, what? At least she hasn’t turned into grandma yet, who was fond of calling my cousin Mark, “the boy.” The TV remote is Dot’s worst enemy, and occasionally she confuses it with the telephone. Unfortunately, saying “hello” 47 times will not change the channel…
Whoever snatched my formerly reliable, sharp short-term memory: I’d like it back now, please. ~Dr. SunWolf
It’s rough watching your once lucid mother struggle so much. To be honest, it’s a real bitch. And when my patience goes on vacation, I definitely feel guilty. Because I just want to shout, “What is it? What are you saying?” I know there’s a giant scroll of words in mom’s head, and I just want to pull it out, and unfurl the damn thing. Every so often, I look at old family photos, and I recall how vibrant she used to be. Especially when my parents owned a motor home, and hosted cocktail-fueled tailgate parties at Fresno State football games. Much later, they spent years following the FSU Women’s Softball Team, all decked out in their crimson red attire. There are times I still see the old Dot, like when she’s reading the paper, and her tongue sticks out in great concentration. Or when she’s engrossed in one of her puzzles, singing away to the Platters. They say at some point in your life, you and your parents will reverse roles. Which is why I’m now the one cooking dinner, and I’m the one tucking mom into bed at night. Every week or so, she decides to sleep on a different side of the bed, for no apparent reason. I often wonder, if inside her misty mind, she’s secretly saving the other side for my dad…
She drank good ale, strong punch and wine,
And lived to the age of ninety-nine.
~Epitaph on Mrs. Freeland, in the churchyard of Edwalton
My mother gets around pretty well, but there are still some things she can’t do herself. For instance, she can’t bathe alone. Now, giving your parent a shower is an eye-opening adventure all its own. First of all, you have to get past the nakedness. Let’s face it, that experience can be a real shock to the system. I have to say, the first time I saw Dot in the buff, I didn’t know how to react. Should I look? Should I not look? Am I looking too much? What exactly IS the protocol for this situation? And then, once I realized she wasn’t embarrassed, it got much easier. I’m not saying it’s my favorite task in the world, but at least mom’s still able to use the commode without any assistance. Because getting jiggy with that area of the body, is something that might push me right over the edge. Bust out the rubber gloves! You might think it wouldn’t be that difficult taking care of an 89-year-old woman, but think again. She’s faster than she looks, and you can’t let her out of your sight. One minute she’s right in front of you, and as soon as you blink, she’s doing laps around the backyard in her fancy walker. She really is the world’s worst patient. It’s like having a toddler around; she won’t listen to you, and if you tell her not to do something, you can bet she’s doing it later. “Mom, get off that stool!” “Wendy, I have to water my violets.” “Mom, why are you lifting that?” “Because you weren’t here.” “Dot, where are you going?” “Wendy, the bird feeder is empty.” Oy vey. Sometimes, I think she does it just to piss me off. Well played Dot, well played…